“I can’t think of another reason why he’d be capable of magic like that.”

“If so, then she could do the same for us,” he said.

“I fear you’re hopelessly optimistic when it comes to your sister.”

Magnus swallowed hard. “I fear you’re right, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

It wasn’t long before Enzo and Milo returned, nodding to the king that the deed was done.

Slowly, and with help from Milo, King Gaius got back on his horse, and they continued on.

It turned out to be three days of travel, which included frequent stops so the king could rest, taking them through small snow-covered villages and ice-encrusted cities. Amara didn’t have soldiers patrolling this far east yet, so they didn’t have to try to avoid being seen by those who might send word to the empress that King Gaius now traveled with both Magnus and Cleo at his side.

Just as Magnus was ready to demand more answers from his father—answers he was sure he wouldn’t receive—they came upon a village in the Reaches called Scalia. It looked no different from the others they’d passed through, yet Magnus felt that something had changed. His father now rode with his shoulders straight rather than slumped.

They followed the king as he took them along a row of stone cottages, each identical to the next. Smoke rose from each chimney, so thick in the frigid air that it resembled puffs of cotton.

The king slipped off his horse, then looked to Magnus. “Come with me.”

“It seems we’ve arrived,” Magnus said to Cleo.

“At long last,” she replied. Despite her dry tone, he could see the hope in her eyes.

They followed the king as he approached the door of the second cottage on the left. He paused for a moment, straightening his spine. Magnus was shocked to see such hesitation in his father. Finally, Gaius took a deep breath in, raised his fist, and pounded three times on the door’s surface.

It took several long moments before the door creaked open inward and a woman looked out at them. Her eyes widened immediately.

“Gaius,” she said, her voice barely audible.

It was her—Magnus’s grandmother. She looked different—older, of course. Her black hair had turned a dark gray, but the white streak in the front still remained.

“Mother,” Gaius replied, his tone void of emotion.

Her gaze swept past the king to Magnus and Cleo. “This is quite a surprise.”

“I’m sure it is,” the king said.

Selia’s gaze moved back to the king. “Gaius, my darling, what has happened to you?” Before he could reply, she opened the door wider. “Come in, please. All of you.”

The king gestured for Milo and Enzo to remain outside and stand guard, but then he, Magnus, and Cleo entered the small cottage.

“Please sit.” Selia indicated some modest seating around a small wooden table. “And tell me why you look so desperately unwell.”

The king sat stiffly upon one of the chairs. “First, in case you don’t recognize him, this is your grandson.”

“Magnus,” she said, nodding. “Of course, I’d know you anywhere. You’ve barely changed.” Her eyebrows drew together as she patted his cheek, her gaze lingering on his scar.

“Trust me, I’ve changed a lot,” he said. “This is Princess Cleiona Bellos of Auranos, my . . . wife.” For the first time since their forced marriage, he tasted no bitterness or resentment in the word.

“Cleiona Bellos.” The woman’s assessing gaze slowly tracked toward the princess. “Elena and Corvin’s youngest daughter.”

“Yes,” the king hissed.

Selia raised a brow. “You didn’t take the Damora name upon your marriage to my grandson?”

“No. I chose instead to continue to honor my family name,” Cleo replied, “since I’m the last Bellos.”

“I suppose that’s understandable.” Selia’s attention returned to the king. “Now, tell me how you came to be in such dire shape, my son. I assume this is the reason for this long-awaited visit?”

Magnus heard no accusation in her tone, only concern.

“One of the reasons, yes,” the king admitted. And then he briefly told the woman about his fall from the cliff, without giving specific details about why he fell.

Selia all but collapsed into a chair when he finished. “Then there’s very little time. I feared this would happen one day, and I could only pray to the goddess that you’d come to find me if it did.”

“You know what to do?” the king asked.

“I believe so. I only hope it can be done in time.”

“Why are you here?” Magnus finally put his thoughts into words. “Why did you disappear all those years ago only to . . . live here, in Scalia, of all the undesirable places in Limeros?”

She eyed him quizzically. “Your father didn’t tell you?”

“No. But to be truthful, my father doesn’t tell me very much. I thought you were dead.” He gritted his teeth, angry all over again that this secret had been kept from him for thirteen years. “Clearly, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” she agreed. “What I am is in exile.”

Magnus shot a look at the king. “For what reason?”

“It was her own choice,” the king replied weakly. “There were those on the royal council who demanded her execution—those who believe to this day that her execution was carried out privately. Instead, your grandmother came to live here. And here she has stayed all these years without anyone in this village—or at the palace—being any the wiser for it.”